Two Arabs are sitting in a Gaza bar chatting over a pint of fermented goat’s milk.
One pulls his wallet out and starts flipping through pictures and they start reminiscing.
“This is my oldest son, he’s a martyr.”
“This is my second son. He is a martyr also.”
After a pause and a deep sigh, the second Arab says wistfully, “They blow up so fast, don’t they?”